Ritual
by mrs.milfoy
Summary: How Malfoy men celebrate birthdays. Incest and witchcraft. Minor blood.


They addressed the event formally. As the last few years had been filled with Death Eaters, war, blood and trials and tribulations, the little family had been remiss in birthday celebrations. So now, they wore their finest, drank their finest, and ate their finest, gathered in the elaborately lit dining hall.

Narcissa dripped diamonds, emeralds and silver silk. She was Slytherin sex so much that even her son noticed. And Lucius - not to be outdone - was buttoned to the jaw in forest satin, his cravat serpent-embroidered.

Draco was pleased to be the center of their attentions and eager to curry his mother's favour by wearing the charcoal suit she'd chosen, though he rather regretted the heavy goblin-wrought cuff links. All in all, it was a dinner befitting a prince. Not to mention the gifts had been...over-elaborate. To say the least.

But Draco wasn't a fool. He could tell something was brewing. Despite the joviality of that evening's dinner, there was an unspoken thing flitting betwixt his parents like a snitch. His mother's eyes, soft and grey, cut sharply to his father even when she spoke to her son.

"I'm pleased we're all able to celebrate this evening together, darling." She patted his hand. "But also sorry we were not able to celebrate properly these last two years."

Draco shook his head. "It's just a birthday, mum. But I appreciate all the fuss. And of course - the pudding." He rubbed his belly appreciatively.

Lucius, who had been quiet most of the evening, poured Narcissa a glass of sweet wine, offered more to Draco. "Actually," he broached slowly, "it is rather more than that, Draco."

Draco sipped his wine. Noted how his mother brushed delicate fingers over her decolleté. _Finally. _He took the segue coolly. "How so, father?"

In answer, Lucius simply pushed away from the table. His heavy robes settled with a swish, and Narcissa looked up at him. He cupped her jaw before nodding stiffly to Draco. "Finish your dessert, son. Then come to my study, and I shall...explain."

They watched the patriarch depart, then Draco's eyes settled on his Narcissa's downcast face. "Mother?"

"Hm?" She sipped her wine. Evening shadow played on her throat, causing the gem glow there to flutter.

"D'you know what this about?"

She took a deep breath, still not meeting his gaze. "That is for your father to explain, I'm afraid." Her neatly French manicured nails clinked against crystal goblet. The set of her deeply rouged lips told him she was bothered. "But Draco…"

"Yes?"

"Whatever your decision regarding this night, please know…" Her voice nearly cracked. She pressed her serviette to her cheek.

"Know what, mother?" He whispered. Didn't care to see this witch upset. He'd seen more than enough of that for one lifetime.

She shook her head, collected her faculties with grace. Her shimmering eyelids fluttered. "Nothing. Happy eighteenth birthday, son." She toasted him, fake smile primly placed.

_Frustrating._ Draco drained his glass. "Excuse me, then?" At her nod and wave, he left the table. When he looked back from the dining room archway, she was biting nervously at a finger and gazing out a wide window.

The heavy door of his father's study was open, so he stepped inside. "Father?"

Lucius stood before the enormous floo, licked by orange flame. His eyes glinted in the otherwise dark. "Draco. Come in."

It was a favourite room. As a boy, Draco had reveled in time spent here; the smells of tobacco, cedar and dry papyrus. If it was a cologne, he would wear it liberally. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Sit." His father turned from the fire, approached his sizable cherry wood desk. His vest was unbuttoned. Cravat hung loose. "Do you remember this?"

Draco moved to stand beside him, looked down at the oblong case he held. "I do. Vaguely." It was a cedar box, deep, with an elaborate lock. The Malfoy crest was burned black in the lid. Lucius set it on the desk between them. "It was off limits to me as a child, I recall. I always assumed it was…"

"Dark magic?" His father asked with an arched brow. Draco shrugged sheepishly. "Surprisingly, no. Although it _is _heavily infused with magic." A wave of his new oak wand and the lock clicked open - a dragon's mouth opening.

Draco peered inside with a childlike wonder. Nestled in individual compartments were phials, corked and waxed securely closed. "What are they?" Several empty phials waited to be filled.

Lucius reached not quite randomly and produced a phial, offered it to Draco. It was heavier than it appeared, the thin crystal revealing a thick dark sludge inside. With a curl of his lip, Draco held it to the light. "Is that...is that blood?"

"Among other things." Lucius nodded.

Draco read the spiky scratch on the label. "Lucius Clavicus. I'm not familiar with that name."

"A very old ancestor. Long dead now." Lucius took the phial back, traded it for another. "Perhaps you'll recognise this one?"

"Lucius Abraxas." He glanced up. "Of course. That's you. What is it, though?"

"It _is _blood, Draco." Lucius replaced the phial carefully. "Mine, and my mother's. Also…" He cleared his throat. "Some...er...semen. Also mine and...some of her…" He gestured, uncertain.

Draco colored, suddenly understanding. "Oh. Oh!" He looked at the phials with a renewed disgust. "Are they all…"

"Yes." Lucius touched another, touched phials as he spoke. "This one is my older brother's. My uncle's. My younger brother's. My -"

Draco held up a hand, stopping him. "Right. Right." He sighed. "My question is why? I understand blood magic, father, but what is the purpose?"

"It's a binding spell." Lucius pulled one of the empty phials. "This is the secret of the Malfoys' longevity. Malfoy witches - for centuries - have bound their sons to extend those sons' lives for as long as possible, also extending their own." He offered Draco the empty phial.

But Draco hesitated. His mind was working calculations, implications, possibilities. "But… your father - he died relatively young. Of dragon pox."

"And he refused to take part in the ritual. As is your choice now."

Draco realised he was chewing at his lip and released it. "Ritual?"

Lucius turned the empty phial. In the red fire light, Draco saw his name already elegantly scrawled there - just in case, he supposed. "It's simple, really," Lucius said. "The first fluid in the vial is the collected essence of mother and son. Then atop that - their blood. The spell work is already complete. The work of the witch."

Draco blinked. "Collected essences…"

For the first time that long evening, Lucius met his son's eyes directly. "I shared a bed with my mother, Draco. After the deed was accomplished, we simply collected what was spent from her…" He cleared his throat. "Well, from her. Then, the prick of an athame, the press of a cork, and a bit of sealing wax..."

Draco's mouth was open. He couldn't seem to close it. "You _slept with_ your mother? With grandmere?!"

"No. Not exactly." Lucius sucked air through his teeth. "I slept in my own bed and she in hers. After."

"After…" Draco swallowed. _Why is it so dreadfully hot in here? _"You...you _fucked _your mother."

"Rather course, mugglish terminology, son. I don't particularly care for it."

"But you did!" Draco turned away. Had to. Ran a hand through his hair. "And now you're saying I have to sleep with _my _mother?!" He glared at his father. Pointed a bit manically. "She's your _wife_!"

"I'm well aware of that." Lucius sighed. Ran a hand through his own long white cornsilk. The shared gesture was one more reminder of the incest lurking in the invitation. "But I am not saying you _have_ to do this thing, son." As if to prove there was no threat, he held the phial aloft in hands of surrender. "As I said earlier, this is a choice."

"And what of mother's choice?" Draco's heart was hammering against the prison of his ribs. "What if she -"

"Your mother has already agreed to be a part of the ritual. She agreed even before you were born. The ritual is the witch's, after all."

"Unbelievable," Draco huffed. He turned again. "And what if there was no mother? Hm? What if she was dead or...refused or…"

"There was always a substitution if necessary." Lucius supplied matter of factly. "You're splitting hairs, Draco."

"And you're splitting…" But he trailed off. Confusion and indignation and disgust giving way to speechlessness. "Fuck, father!" Draco pointed out the open door, dropped his voice as if the witch in question might hear. "That's my bloody _mother_!"

"And that's the bloody _point_!" Lucius matched. They breathed deeply for a moment, each collecting his respective thoughts. Then Lucius sighed. "Look, Draco. As I said. It's a decision for you to make. And while I know it is no simple decision, it is a life changing one."

Draco's face worked a palate of spasms. "How old is the oldest Malfoy alive now?"

"Your great great grandpere and great great grandmere are both perhaps a hundred and fifty years old."

Draco gaped. "They are?!" He'd seen them just months earlier. Never would have suspected the spry old wizard who'd tried his new broom to be a day over...well, eighty perhaps for a wizard. Not to mention his grandmere was still a beauty of a witch… "Hell."

Lucius lowered the phial again, offered it over a thick-robed elbow. "Your choice," he repeated.

Draco winced. He thought of his grandmere. His great grandparents. His great great grandparents. His uncles and aunts. His cousins (the pinch-faced prats they all were). Wondered how many had been offered this opportunity - or would be offered. How many had taken it. How many would take it. His eyes flicked to the cedar box, then back to the phial is father offered. Then he thought of his mother.

When he took the phial, his eyes were dark with certainty. "Is she -"

"In her chambers." Lucius watched the young wizard depart. His jaw tightened, and he turned once more to the fire. A wand wave brought his favourite leather chair lumbering over. He sat heavily. Steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared into the flames.

His mother's chambers were long a mystery to him. In all his years in his own home, Draco had never been inside her private rooms. It wasn't that he'd not been invited, but he'd been privy to an unspoken sort of respect. An ephemeral acknowledgment of her very deep privacy. An appreciation that those rooms were the ones wherein she crafted.

And the magic of a witch versus the magic of a wizard… Well, the differentiation was as intrinsic as time immemorial.

Even now - though the door was generously cracked - Draco felt himself some encroacher. And his purpose only made him feel moreso some insidious presence. Nevertheless, he pushed the ash open...then closed behind him.

It was dark inside. A soft darkness one might compare to the womb if one had the capacity for such memory. A few candles flickered on a few surfaces, their thick pillars etched with symbols. There were also candles on the floor, arranged in swirl patterns like paths. He looked around, acclimating, and seeking out his mother.

There were other doors. A wardrobe, partially open. The silver frock he recognised from dinner hanging haphazardly from a mirror. And in the mirror he caught his reflection. He wondered at the last time he'd looked so scared…

And there was a bed. An overlarge, over-pillowed affair draped in golden linens. Messier than he would have expected from his pin-neat matron. His eyes lingered on the bed. His stomach flipped oddly when he couldn't resist imagining them there. Together. Twined like snakes. His paleness and hers. _My mother._

When he opened his eyes, he saw her. Facing the far window, she knelt on a cushion before what was obviously her altar. It was dark wood, intricately carved, and the white angelic form of his mother stood stark against the massive furnishing.

It was easy to lust this way. Her back was to him. Her hair tumbled in soft waves over one side of her body. She was nearly nude, a sheer grey shift untied at her neck, revealing a deep 'v' of pristine back. Her spine shifted, created shadows in the skin. She was moving.

Her graceful dancer's arms waved at a swirling shaft of smoke, set it scattering. She sprinkled something and a hiss erupted steam. Draco's nostrils flared. He recognised the scents of hot iron, anise, sage and wormwood… The smell of _magic_. He closed his eyes and felt his muscles relax.

When he looked again, she was seated and facing him. Patience on her pretty features. He froze, again tense, aware of the empty phial he held against his thigh. He saw her eyes fall upon it and cleared his throat. "Mother."

Her gaze flitted up to his, a bird taking flight to a branch just above. "Draco."

The nearly sheer shift offered him hints of her body beneath it. The body of a witch half her age. Her nipples were peaked against the fabric. His fingers itched strangely. _What do I say? _

But she spoke first. "You've made your decision, then?"

He nodded. "Mum. Are you…"

She smiled softly. "The magic works, Draco. It is nothing a witch would not do for her son. A guarantee of his life? Someday you will want it for your own son."

Merlin, he certainly didn't want to think of that. At least not now when he had to think of her. Of touching her. Holding her nakedness against his own. Feeling her wetness. Tasting her. Pushing inside her… He flushed. Perhaps her magic was working already. "Mother…"

"Here." She stood. Walked toward him with a little silver cup. She stepped over candles with practiced ease, lighting pale shapely legs and further shadowing the demon curves beneath her shift. "Drink this. It will make it...easier."

He took the cup completely trusting its contents. It tasted of cherry and something sharp. But almost immediately he went lightheaded, blood flow effectively diverted elsewhere. His groin ached. "Oh…" She took the emptied cup, so close he could have caught her. Her finger dipped into the lingering drops, slicked them up. She sucked the finger clean and Draco groaned lightly.

"Draco. Come," she whispered. (He nearly did so.) She ushered him to the edge of her bed, helping him smoothly navigate candles. "We can perform a charm if you like." She was removing the heavy cufflinks. Sluicing his tie from around his neck. "I could be someone else." She shrugged, unbuttoning his shirt. "Anyone you like. I wouldn't even have to know the girl." Her fingers began working his trouser placket. "Shall I teach you the incantation?"

He stared at the dark patch of promise between her legs. Her knuckles brushed his tumescence. "No," he rasped. "Just like this."

She gasped when he wrenched her to him. Whimpered sweet surprise when he raided her mouth with his tongue. And could she be surprised? When she was a siren feeding him liquid desire? _She's no right to surprise._

He toed off his shoes, shoving her onto the bed. The potion phial pressed cool to her back and she reached for it awkwardly. "We won't need this just yet. Oh, goddess bless!" She dropped the crystal tube. He pawed at the shift, pulled it impatiently over her head.

Half out of his shirt, he fell upon her. "Feels...so good." His skin was afire where hers touched it. Whether it was the potion she'd prepared or the magic she'd stirred or...something he didn't want to dwell on just now, it didn't matter. His hot cock pressed into her cool thigh and she shifted them backward until he was flush against her.

He whimpered. She soothed him with cooing words and finger-strokes that only served to further morph him - make him into some beast. He growled and steered her arms above her head. The candles flickered in response, highlighting her wide eyes and quivering breasts. "Beautiful," he said, testing the texture of a hard puckered nipple.

"Ah!" She bucked. "Draco!" And his name was more magic - a spell she chanted as her thighs burned trails over his hips. "Draco…" The empty phial rolled against her, cooling a patch of blazing skin.

His bollocks - swollen and throbbing - felt her cunt contract. It was burning and slick. Just a pump - and a shared gasp - he was sliding inside her. "Ah! Ahh!" She thrust back. "Darling, please. Let me hold you!"

Her arms settled around him tight as hell's promise and his hands settled on her hips. He held her steady - captive - and fucked her with unrestrained joy. "Perfect," he muttered. He ate her lips, her tongue, her mewls and squeals. Occasionally, their nipples brushed and the shock that shot to his abdomen was addictive.

He grunted on every thrust, wondered at the depth of this pleasure. _Is this what I've been missing? _Wondered if it would always be this way. If it was the potion. If it was the witch currently clawing his back to shreds.

The pain was remarkably encouraging. Each sharp scratch spurring him on. And when those deadly nails reached his sensitive buttocks, he bit her shoulder. She flung her head and screamed, began yet another incantation, this one less magic and more base.

"YesyesyesDracosoclosesoclosesocloseDracosogoodsog oodsogoodoh!Oh! Oh!" And her body unhinged itself.

Almost terrifying the way she contorted. Incredible the way her cunt clutched and pulled at his cock and then -

"No!" He couldn't contain the shout. _Too soon, too much! Not now! Not yet! More of this pleasure! _"No, please! Mother!"

"Shhhh." She soothed him, tangling fingers in his hair and pulling. She watched his face as he came inside her helplessly. She smiled sloppily past a bitten lip, victorious. "Shhh," she soothed again. Let him fall boneless against her, let him bury his shamed face in her neck. "So fucking perfect," she whispered against his ear. "My darling, my strong dragon."

He rose on his elbows to look blearily at her. Tears streaked both their faces. "My boy." She stroked his face, sleeked the tears and sweat away. "My _man_. I will make you live forever."

She fumbled briefly for the phial bumping at her side. Popped the cork free with her thumb. "Here." He took it uncertainly, looking from her face to the glass. "Like this, love." Gently, she pushed at his hips until he pulled out of her. "Uh," she breathed at the loss. "Now."

Wrapping her fingers around his around the phial, she guided him. They dipped the lip of smooth, cool crystal to her reddened and swollen cunt. Draco watched her flinch - watched the liquid thick and viscous leaking from her into the tube. "There." She said.

He sat on his haunches between her raised knees. Held the phial to the light. It contained the essence of them - the product of what they'd done. A drink of their pleasure. White and milky magic.

Narcissa fell tiredly to the bed. Her knee fell against his shoulder. It was sticky with sweat. "Fetch my athame," she said. Her voice was husky and low. He goosepimpled from it.

"Where?" His own voice was cracked and spare.

"My altar." She stretched. Nudged his shoulder with her foot. He stood and marveled a moment at her flexibility.

His legs were wobbly. He stumbled lucky over candles. Between a large crystal and a polished bird skull lay her shining silver athame. Beside it, her bright willow wand. He brought her both, just in case. She was sitting, waiting for him once more wearing that ridiculous shift. She smiled at his thoughtfulness when she took her wand, sobered when she took her knife.

"Hold it steady, please." She nodded at the phial. He did as she asked, concentrating on not spilling a drop. Her motions were practiced. She pressed the tip of the long, curving blade to her middle finger and blood bubbled quickly. "Ooh!" She smiled as she positioned the digit over the phial.

Her blood - impossibly red - ran rivulets into the tube, stopped by their spendings. He saw a few streaks penetrate the opaque fluid. And for the first time, he noticed her fingers. Graceful and beautiful, the tips were hardened and callused. She'd done this often.

"Now." She put the phial between her pale knees, bent them to hold it snugly and jerked his hand over it. "Won't hurt a bit."

She lied. The prick was a swift sting. "Ow!" But his blood was quick to flow, too. A deeper red than hers. For a few seconds he could actually differentiate between her and his own, but then they ran together and were the same sanguine stuff.

She chuckled. Her blood ran over the back of his hand as she held it steady. "Sorry," she breathed. Draco kissed the top of her head. She looked up, and kissed his lips. "Here." Briskly, she corked the crystal. "We'll have your father seal it."

He nodded. Knackered. Overwhelmed. But the questions came anyway. "Mother. The potion you gave me…?"

She shrugged. "Purely physical. I wondered what boy would manage…" She gestured, meaning his erection. "...for his old mum."

"Oh." He wasn't sure how he felt about that. But he began quietly dressing, legs still a bit weak. "And you?"

"Me?" She stretched langorously on the bed, hands grappling with her pillows.

"I mean, what did you take?"

She smiled shyly. "Nothing, Draco."

"Oh." And something akin to pride swelled in his chest. Her legs contrasted beautifully with the gilt bedding. The candlelight bronzed the porcelain. "Well, then." He didn't bother buttoning his shirt. Found himself loath to leave her. "I'll...I'll just take this to father, then." She nodded. He backed away under her watchful, playful eyes. Paused at her door. "Mum."

"Hm?" She seemed to be expecting something.

"Will this...does this ever happen again?"

She propped on an elbow. Looked incredibly girlish. Her black/white hair a tangled gorgeous mess spilling over breasts he longed to hold again. "Draco. Do you want it to?" And perhaps that was hope tingeing her tone. He wanted it to be hope.

He swallowed. Flushed hotly. "Of course not." He knew his tics gave him away. She could spot his lies even in his childhood. "Perhaps." he sniffed. "Yes."

Her grin was pure, rare happiness. "Go to your father," she said. He scurried for the doorknob, a bit embarrassed by his want. "But Draco?"

"Yes?" Over his shoulder, he saw her smile widen.

"Just so you know. I'll be sleeping here tonight. Alone."

He felt his own smile break. A mental dance of victory. "Good to know, mother." He stepped into the quiet hallway. Felt the cool air stroke his overheated chest. The manor was so very quiet. He opened his palm. Looked down at the now warm phial. Made his way to his father's study. He remembered his father's words. If they lengthened their lives this way, they did so together. Himself and his mother.

He smiled his own smile. _So very long together._ The ritual promised practically forever...

**AN: **This idea came from the oddest source: my boss. I may have to listen to her more often. If you're curious, you too can smell Lucius' study. The inspiring scent is Bulletproof from Tokyo Milk. And Narcissa's chambers are well captured by Tokyo Milk's other masterpiece - Arsenic. Go to Sephora and fall in love with them. Thanks, dragon - for your encouraging feedback.


End file.
